Angel of Music, Guide and Guardian
by L'Ange de Musique
Summary: It seems that someone wants to kill young Christine de Chagny, but a strange angel is there to make sure everything goes his way. Set twenty years after the original POTO. Maybe the prologue is a little weird, but aw hell, I'm doing my best ^_^
1. Prologue: The Phantom of the Opera is Th...

A/N: Hey! L'Ange (formerly silent whispers) here! Maybe this isn't my first phanphic, but it sure as hell may suck big time.I don't know what I'm talking about #^_^# 'Neways, it may be pretty weird, so.yeah. If you can bear with all the nonsense in this story, *huge* kudos to you, my friend! Cheers and enjoy!  
  
  
  
~ PROLOGUE: The Phantom of the Opera is There.  
  
  
  
(Paris Opera House, 1862)  
  
  
  
"Jeans, this is a stupid idea. I mean, for what reason would an idiot like you want to go down there and seek some unknown thing in the darkness of a cellar ruined by a flood merely days ago?" The dark-haired young man stared back at his companion with a look of skepticism and ridiculing.  
  
"Relax, Antony," the other boy replied with a grin, tying a solid-looking pig-bristle rope around his waist. "I just want to know what I can find down there, if the water didn't wash away everything."  
  
"If you do find a certain item," Antony continued, raising an eyebrow, "What are you going to do with something so useless?"  
  
"I'll sell it to that old Persian loon who always lurks around the Opera, I guess," he shrugged. "He claims to have known Monsieur Le Fantome better than anyone else around here. Besides, it helps to keep a bit of legend around for the children in later days."  
  
"Suit yourself," Antony sniffed. "It all belongs to a real dead man now. Still, Jean, you should be on the lookout for anything peculiar-or dangerous."  
  
"I shall, I shall, my dear comrade. Just lower the rope."  
  
"I don't trust it, though. Where did you say you found it again?"  
  
"It was just lying around near the discarded backdrop," he confirmed. "It should be fine, nothing seems to be wrong with it."  
  
"All right." Antony nodded, completely exasperated by his friend's daring idiocy, and loosened his grip on the rope to send him down, down below the trapdoor they had discovered earlier, into a sea of pitch-black. Worry struck him again.  
  
"Jean, how will you be able to see without a lamp?"  
  
"I have a matchbox. Stop being so damn cautious all the time, Tony! I'll be fine."  
  
"If you say so," he grumbled. "Full slack on the rope, then."  
  
"Thanks. I'll see you in a while."  
  
Bit by bit, the boy's body sank with Antony's careful, rhythmic hand movement with the rope, descending into the world of underground catacombs below the Great Paris Opera House that no one had even dreamed of. It was a strange feeling, having yourself being brought to place as deep, airless and lonely as hell, but curiosity had eaten up his fear and weirdly compelled him to drop further inside.  
  
  
  
No one would probably understand, but it felt to him like someone-someone he didn't know, and perhaps never would-wanted him to manage to get his hands on something of the greatest value, something that would turn another's life in a completely different direction-something that would bring memory into one's heart, and leave a mark of its own in the same place.  
  
  
  
Little did this youth-handsome, boyish, bold and energetic Jean-Claude Marquel, just one of the Opera House's stable hands-know that all of that was to happen very soon.  
  
  
  
But suddenly, Jean-Claude was jerked out of his floating journey inside his imagination to realize that the rope was moving ten times swifter than it should have been.  
  
*No way, * his mind raced frantically, his fast-sweaty palms grasping it for invisible support in a useless attempt to catch himself. *Why am I moving so quickly? Antony would never let this happen.*  
  
*Unless--*  
  
He was only speeding farther down, now noticing how deep it was, several parts the sub-stories being destroyed by the enormous aqueous storm before, supposedly caused by a sustained well upsetting some boxes and rising to break some of the rotted woodwork.  
  
*Oh no--did he let go of the rope--? *  
  
"Antony!" Jean-Claude shouted in his desperation, his cries disappearing as echoes in the greedy nocturnal realm he was entering at a presently increased pace. "Antony!"  
  
In his frustration, he was surprised to hear a loud but very muffled shout, sounding like his best friend's, that was stifled into silence half a second later. He was now without doubt that something had gone terribly wrong, with both the rope and the other stable boy.  
  
  
  
But Jean-Claude had no more time to think. He had no intention of falling into the swollen well-water that he was sure lay at the bottom of this decrepit place, so he had to grab hold of something. Still suspended in nothing, he untied the rope in a rush, still trying to hold on my growling faintly in despair as it slipped from his hands, agilely turned his body over in one quick spin, pawed the invisible wall he could only hold on to, and succeeded to changing his position from back first for the final crash to feet first, which he figured would hurt less.  
  
  
  
His wish to hang on to something was answered five excruciatingly long seconds after, when he painfully felt his attenuated, fair-skinned fingers slam hard into what seemed to the decayed material of an old storage crate, preferably held up by the water or the remaining wood that stood against it.  
  
  
  
His hands hurt by the impact but still strong enough to support him, Jean- Claude kicked his way up to the crate's smooth, weary surface and finally nudging off the frayed edge to sit down and catch his breath, still stunned by the speed of the fall.  
  
After about a minute of his tense breathing, he remembered perhaps the only thing that would provide him with helpfulness now, and reached into his dirty apron pocket to find a small wooden matchbox covered in scratch paper. Sighing softly, he scratched one of the tiny sticks against the box's side to light it, and sure enough, to his great gratitude, a diminutive yellow, black and blue light emerged, the limited source illuminated a few meters of the bleakness around him.  
  
Surprised at such a clear range, Jean-Claude held a splintered and slightly bloodied palm nearer to the petty fire, stinging his skin but protecting what was supposed to protect him. All he could see at his level was an ocean of nothing, and looking up only the layers of thin, broken floor, so taking caution, like Antony had warned him what seemed like centuries but only minutes ago, he leaned his slim figure over the brink of the large box with the match still clasped tightly in between his secure fingers, and peeked down as far as his eyes would go.  
  
  
  
And he saw the underground world. What seemed to be exploded dust from the Opera's old sandbags littered the bottom of the strongest floor, just until a large hole full of grayed water stopped its trail, like someone's sick fantasy of a beach. He noticed that the distance from the box from the soft cushion of sand wasn't that far apart.  
  
Besides.  
  
  
  
What was that?  
  
  
  
Something else was down there.  
  
  
  
It looked like some small piece of paraphernalia.maybe white.  
  
  
  
What exactly was it?  
  
  
  
Looked like he needed to find out.  
  
  
  
More out of curiosity than courage, Jean-Claude pushed himself off the box brim onto the sand smothering the wood, surprisingly not feeling his feet. He was right about that strange object. It just sat there, still incomprehensible, compelling him to pick it up and examine it. Mystified, he bent down and swept it from its aged grayish-gold perch.  
  
  
  
It was a mask. A pure white one, glowing against the diminished light, something to cover the whole face with.  
  
  
  
Who should own such a mask.?  
  
  
  
It reminded him of ugliness, of concealment, of secrecy, of hidden desire. Surely this puzzling object's master would have all of these qualities? He must have, because Jean-Claude immediately felt some icy breeze penetrate through his skin and mercilessly chill his bones just thinking about it.  
  
  
  
But he had no time to think. In the blink of an eye, something bristly brushed across his left ear, inclining him to glance upwards. Tremendous astonishment hit him when he realized that it was the rope dangling above him. He thought it had fallen into the water or got lost in one of the upper floors--!  
  
  
  
But he didn't have a choice. If he actually wanted to get out of the isolated underground hell, he'd have to trust anybody-or anything. Something else came to his mind-maybe Antony had come back to his senses and dropped another rope down to rescue his loyal and ever-thankful best friend.  
  
  
  
"Antony!" Jean-Claude yelled, glad that someone had actually answered his mental pleas for help. "Mon amie, is that you?"  
  
  
  
No answer.  
  
  
  
"Antony?" he called yet again. "Oi, can you hear me?"  
  
  
  
There was still no reply, but the rope kept pulling him up steadily in a quick, uninterrupted movement. Finally, he kept quiet, only watching himself ascend floor by floor, still clutching the white mask in his hand. Was this what was calling him earlier.?  
  
  
  
What was even stranger to Jean-Claude Marquel was that what seemed hours ago, when the rope had loosened around his middle, and after hanging from the trapdoor's boundary and pulling himself up, he found out that no one had been pulling him, and the rope was hanging in midair. 


	2. Chapter One: Moonlit Platform

A/N: I can't believe it! Some people actually reviewed this story! O_O I'd like to say that I'm eternally grateful...? I thought this story wouldn't host any reviews and just put it up for kicks...Oh well. Again, I'd like to give my thanks to Shandethe Sanders, Yukito-sama and Xtreme Person for the reviews! I love to write, and maybe this piece of crap is worthwhile after all ^_^ I just hope I can make you happy with the first chapter! Well, if you think you can bear with me and my babbling, cheers, and enjoy! :)  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own POTO, Gaston Leroux does. And the musical belongs to the Really Useful Group, Andrew Lloyd Webber and Cameron Mackintosh. The lyrics used here are the original ones off the soundtrack, written by Charles Hart. The rest, mostly the new characters, belong to me. Have fun! :D  
  
  
  
CHAPTER ONE: Moonlit Platform  
  
  
  
(Paris Opera House, 1882)  
  
  
  
"We are all here?" Mademoiselle Meg Giry peeked through the top of her reading glasses to check the horde of young ballerinas dancing up and down on their toes nervously in their frilly white tutus and slippers and chattering idly while waiting for her to lead them all, twenty or so little girls, onto the stage.  
  
"Let's see...Ampoule...Montreau...Ruban..." She now realized who of the secluded group was missing, and tilted her spectacles with her fingers to sternly peer at her ballet class.  
  
"Soujeré! Where is Soujeré?"  
  
As if in response, two seconds later a figure came running swiftly but rather clumsily considering the delicate quality of the pearly lace-trimmed slippers, to land less than gracefully about a foot apart from the strict mistress. The ballerinas could not contain their snickers.  
  
"Estoy bien, Signorita Giry," squeaked a light, drawling voice.  
  
Mademoiselle Giry, only faintly surprised with the intrusion, looked down to see the twenty-first girl, only about fourteen years old or so, relatively short and still amazingly immaculate in her tutu, and featured with jet-black hair, silvery ice-blue eyes and a perpetually cocky smile. She sighed and rolled her eyes.  
  
"This isn't Spain, you know." The giggles of the other teenagers tittered in the background. "Where have you been?"  
  
"The bathroom, Sig-Mademoiselle," she corrected herself, playing with the French word in a thoughtful manner, the hint of Spanish accent still dwelling in her amused tone. "I got lost in the back and couldn't find my way. It was only when I heard you calling that I knew where I was."  
  
"You were playing a prank," accused the lady in a more suggestive way than angry.  
  
The girl only donned a would-be innocent grin, much to the delight of her colleagues, who guffawed generously.  
  
Mademoiselle Giry now looked wholly exasperated. "For your information, L'Ange Soujeré, we have just redone and finished practicing the chorus. Since you have not been here to take note of the changes, I have to ask you to stay behind for the opening song."  
  
"Si, that's quite all right," she replied honestly. "I don't like singing anyway."  
  
"Nothing at all like her mother," another ballerina, Montreau, remarked. The others sniggered, and the scoundrel, unaffected, only shrugged.  
  
"Children, that's quite enough," their teacher announced, miffed but now also filled with the humorous thoughts of one of the Paris Opera House's most famous prima donnas, and her daughter who proved that dancing was her set passion. She turned to face the Soujeré girl now, and thought of an instruction for her to do something useful.  
  
"Now, while we commence the first act with the song, you go find that new girl-we know she's somewhere around here. It'll have to be her solo-Madame Bela is ill, I'm afraid-and she's our only hope. I have faith in her-I know she's ready-and Maria," she acknowledged Soujeré, who brightened considerably when she heard her fist name, "I have faith in you."  
  
The other ballerinas, who all knew a good amount of the 'new girl's capabilities, were aroused from another trance of exchange and beamed at both of them.  
  
The rascal teen, though not knowing anything about the newcomer, nodded enthusiastically. "Nothing to it, Mademoiselle, I'd really love to meet her."  
  
Quite taken back by her reliability, Mademoiselle Giry smiled. "You come out right after the dear's solo, so you better get her fast. Hurry girls, six minutes!"  
  
  
  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
  
  
It took Maria Soujeré's fast feet only about five minutes to scour a fourth of the dressing rooms, none containing the substitute, anxiety already reaching past her eyebrows. True, it would have been great if something preposterous happened onstage tonight, like a frog croak taking over Madame Bela's voice (she recalled an incident like this with queer fondness, because no one really liked Bela much), but this was the opening night of the renovated Opera House, the exhibition of songs and dances that were popular long before her time. Even she, the most mischievous and conniving member of the company, didn't want to wreck it.  
  
  
  
Her face now held a puzzled, calculating expression as she stopped a couple of meters away from the last one, the white door, paint peeling, standing nearest to a dead end.  
  
A good deal of the company's hands, particularly with the backdrop and animal props, were foreign-they were immigrants from Germany, Sweden, Switzerland, Denmark and even Spain, her mother's native country. But it was amazing how wise Kurt van Lieden, the head groom as well as the strongest and perhaps the eldest stagehand though not that old, knew the Opera House from top to its secret and endless bottom.  
  
She now recalled a legend he had narrated to her and the other ballet girls. That old dressing room used to belong to the most popular, innocent and angelic singer in the Opera about twenty years ago. It was also rumored to be haunted by the ghost of a phantom genius who took over her voice and controlled it to produce the most unearthly melodies ever heard in heaven and hell. It gave her the creeps.  
  
But all the same, she lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug and opened the door.  
  
  
  
She suspected the young woman inside to be who she was looking for. The very beautiful lady, only looking a few years older than herself, with the palest milk-white skin, almost platinum-blond hair and crystal blue eyes, was sitting in perfect poise on the old vintage chair, staring in a very concentrated way in the mirror and practicing her scales.  
  
"Do-Re-Mi-Fa-Sol-La-Ti-Do..."  
  
She was greatly astounded by the older girl's almost heavenly soprano voice, and very sure that this was prissy old Madame Bela's replacement. No one else, not even the prima donna herself, could reach notes so high in such a perfect manner, and now she was already contemplating on a complaint that this singer should be the Opera's lead.  
  
"Oy, excuse me," she called, making sure the scale routine had been run through. "I really don't mean to interrupt, but I have to inquire if you're Madame Bela Poncheaux's replacement."  
  
"I know you mean no harm," the latter answered sweetly in a cheerfully honest voice, accompanied with a reassuring smile. "And yes, I am the substitute. Is the show about to start?"  
  
"Aye," Soujeré nodded. "They'll finish with that stupid 'Arbousier' number in about seven minutes or the like."  
  
"All right," the other conceded. "I was about to look for Mademoiselle Giry anyway." Her somewhat blank face furrowed in a questioning expression. "But I don't believe we have met before. May I have your name, if it doesn't bother you?"  
  
"Uh, sure, not at all." The younger girl was baffled by her colleague's politeness, and now a little ashamed of her blunt etiquette. "It's Maria Soujeré, but I'd feel more at ease if you called me by my nickname, Rio."  
  
"Rio," she repeated dreamily. "That's a wonderful name, quite full of meaning-you must be of foreign descent...isn't 'rio' the Spanish word for 'river?' How fast it flows, how cool its water feels, how clear blue it looks under the reflecting sun..."  
  
"Ei, that's great!" Rio cheered, grinning. "You should be a writer or something!"  
  
At this comment, the stranger felt ashamed. "I sincerely apologize-I didn't mean for myself to drift away like that. I promise I shan't do it again."  
  
"Eh, I didn't have a problem," Rio confirmed, both eyebrows ascended.  
  
"My name's Christine de Chagny," she added as an afterthought.  
  
"And your name rings a bell-uh, sounds familiar, I mean. Can't really put my finger on where I've heard that before."  
  
"I understand," Christine replied shyly.  
  
"Well, anyways..." Rio looked to the dry, red-carpeted floor and shuffled her slipper-clad feet. "If you'd like to come onstage..."  
  
"Oh!" she exclaimed in mild surprise. "Yes, yes, we'd better come then. I assume you're a ballet dancer in the company? They've been with Monsieur van Lieden long enough to find someone lost in the Opera."  
  
"Si, Kurt is always with Madame Giry."  
  
Determined to get there on time, the Christine girl stood up from her chair, but Rio was confused to see her glance around the room, a look of despair on her face.  
  
"How do I do this...mon Dieu, I'm so useless..."  
  
"Useless?" Now Rio was downright skeptical. "How can you be useless?"  
  
"I just am," Christine said neutrally. "Why the Opera House wanted to bestow such honor on a person like me, I have no clue whatsoever..."  
  
"I heard your voice," Rio interrupted. "You're the most talented and gifted person I've ever heard, mil times better than snooty old Madame Bela. And look, you're beautiful."  
  
A long pause echoed through the room before Christine asked, as a genuine question, "Am I?"  
  
"Yes!" Rio affirmed, truly addle-headed this time. "Look at yourself in the mirror, tell me what you see."  
  
Christine followed the order and turned to face the aged vanity mirror, but the capitulated expression remained.  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"Nothing? Honestly..."  
  
"Honestly."  
  
It took a few more seconds to let the perplexed girl come to her conclusion- a very awkward one that she didn't want to ask. She fidgeted with her fingers uncomfortably and shifted a shortened lock of her raven-black hair away from her cold blue-gray eyes before popping her query.  
  
"You mean...you really can't...can you?"  
  
"No." Christine shook her head.  
  
  
  
And she realized that Christine de Chagny was blind.  
  
  
  
"They're almost done-only a few minutes more before our solos."  
  
Rio excitedly pulled Christine's hand nearer to the curtain, doing her best to peek in front. Both were in full costume, having changed inside the dressing room: Christine as Elissa from Hannibal, and Rio as Ariadne from a recently written Opera called Bête.  
  
"Can you see past the curtain-the audience, I mean?"  
  
"Si." She gently pulled the curtain away and drummed her fingers up and down as a greeting directed to Louve, another rather skinny ballerina still entranced in her part, even though 'Arbousier' was nearly over.  
  
"Please tell me who you see seated in the boxes."  
  
"All right. Box one-this old rich-looking couple, Swedish maybe."  
  
"My mother was from Sweden, I remember."  
  
"Really? What happened to your mother?"  
  
"She died when I was fourteen."  
  
"Oh, that's horrible!" Rio whispered. "I shouldn't have brought up the topic."  
  
"'Tis quite fine," Christine smiled ruefully. "I was not able to see her suffer, but I felt it when she was finally at peace."  
  
"Oh. Well, I'm fourteen," she added uselessly. "Right-Box Two...Santissimo mierda, my mother!" she almost screeched, and half the ballet girls, now concentrating on the number's finale, turned their eyes and smirked when they discovered who had uttered the vehement remark. "Oh, and uh...my father...allô, Papa..."  
  
At this, Christine smiled in amusement. "That's exactly who I am looking for-my father."  
  
"Si? All right, I'm looking-Box Three is empty, Kurt always said it was jinxed...and some people are occupying Box Four, this chap with red hair and white ends and another not-so-old-looking man with silver hair; they must be the managers, they're wearing very expensive-like evening clothes...Oh, and Box Five is occupied, middle-aged man who seems quite wealthy as well..."  
  
"Middle-aged man?" Christine repeated curiously. "What does he look like?"  
  
"Dark hair, slicked back. Quite handsome for someone who's about forty years old or so."  
  
"That's what I think my father looks like!" Christine cried happily. "Before I lost my vision when I was eleven and before he left after my mother died...I haven't seen the dear man for three years..."  
  
"And you should go out and impress him," Rio grinned. "It looks like he's waiting for someone to come out on stage and make him proud."  
  
"I can hear the crowd...'Arbousier' is already over..."  
  
"Go on then. I heard you sing your C-scale earlier. Make me think you can do better."  
  
Christine grinned at her new friend, unaware that she was facing the correct direction. "How many steps do I have to take to make it onstage?"  
  
"Ten long ones and you'll be directly facing the people."  
  
"Thanks so much for finding me."  
  
"No problem. And you'll do great, I know it," Rio promised.  
  
  
  
True to the ballerina's word, Christine's voice echoed magnificently through the Opera House. She couldn't see herself illuminated on the erected platform, but she could hear her heart speaking through her. And she was totally entranced in the music.  
  
"We never said  
  
Our love was evergreen  
  
Or as unchanging as the sea  
  
But if you can you still remember  
  
Stop and think of me."  
  
  
  
But it all happened so strangely fast. One minute, she was there in the darkness as Elissa, only feeling what she could of her surroundings. Suddenly the brightest light she's ever seen in her life erupted before her very sightless eyes, a flash of the purest blinding white. She couldn't tell if it was from heaven or hell.  
  
  
  
She didn't care about the loud cheers and shouts of 'Encore!' from the hungry operagoers. The only thing that mattered now was the beam, and it was now clearing before her in a rush of silvery mist...  
  
  
  
And she was truly held captive now. It was surely a vision, something that had clapped into her imagination and bound her while her thoughts held in the song, but then...how, why did it seem so real...?  
  
  
  
Whatever vision it was now, it was clear as day in front of her, eyes hosting perfect vision on the scene. She stood in the dimness of a moonlit platform that rooted her to the center, and she took notice of candles and candelabras everywhere, the waxy scent mixing with the stifling fog-sheeted air. And smothering the place was the strangest music coming from some kind of deathlike organ and echoing with the voices of what seemed to be fallen angels. She could hear it, torturing her soul and setting afire...  
  
  
  
"He's there, the Phantom of the Opera..."  
  
  
  
And right there, standing there before her and clothed in nocturnal black, was an unearthly figure-a man, in a demented idea of evening clothes worn at the Opera, cape and hat, covering his face and shadow.  
  
  
  
She felt her heart chill when he smiled at her-a grotesque, ghostly smile reserved for the horror that lay deep in someone's heart in secret. He walked hauntingly around her, keeping the skull-like grin in place, taking off the cap to reveal slicked-back hair combed flat on his head, like the charming murderer who always talked before he killed, and revealing his face, covered entirely in a mask-a fearful white one, glowing eerily in the hellish light.  
  
  
  
And she heard a voice, high-pitched and scary, penetrating the thick cloud of darkness and cold brume that covered them totally. It struck her heart with mental lightning and dread when she discovered that the nightmarish voice, the bittersweet melody of a night angel, was hers.  
  
  
  
And she couldn't swallow back the strange music that had imprisoned her to scream, scream in deep consternation as the man sinisterly removed the mask to show her the terror that lay within...  
  
  
  
"In sleep he sang to me  
  
In dreams he came  
  
That voice which calls to me  
  
And speaks my name  
  
And do I dream again  
  
For now I find  
  
The Phantom of the Opera is there...  
  
Inside my mind..."  
  
  
  
Inside my mind... 


End file.
